Cynthia Manson (ed) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Sherlock
Holmes, laughing. “Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will
happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within
the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a
swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take
place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and
bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such.”
    “So much so,” I remarked, “that of
the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely
free of any legal crime.”
    “Precisely. You allude to my attempt
to recover the Irene Adler papers,
    to the singular case of Miss Mary
Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have
no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You
know Peterson, the commissionaire?”
    “Yes.”
    “It is to him that this trophy
belongs.”
    “It is his hat.”
    “No, no; he found it. Its owner is
unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an
intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon
Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt,
roasting at this moment in front of Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about
four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest
fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way
homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a
tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung
over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out
between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked
off the man’s hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself, and swinging
it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed
forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at
having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing
towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the
labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The
roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in
possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the
shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”
    “Which surely he restored to their
owner?”
    “My dear fellow, there lies the
problem. It is true that ‘For Mrs. Henry Baker’ was printed upon a small card
which was tied to the bird’s left leg, and it is also true that the initials
‘H. B.‘ are legible upon the lining of this hat; but as there are some
thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it
is not easy to restore lost property to any of them.”
    “What, then, did Peterson do?”
    “He brought round both hat and goose
to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of
interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs
that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten
without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil
the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the
unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner.”
    “Did he not advertise?”
    “No.”
    “Then, what clue could you have as
to his identity?”
    “Only as much as we can deduce.”
    “From his hat?”
    “Precisely.”
    “But you are joking. What can you
gather from this old battered felt?”
    “Here is my lens. You know my
methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who
has worn this article?”
    I took the tattered object in my
hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of
the usual round